Voices in the Night
by earinabox
Summary: John, a recently returned Afghanistan veteran, can't say no to the demons that haunt him. Greg Lestrade, an alcoholic struggling with a recent divorce, fights against his addiction. Greg struggles to find John before all of London falls. M for violence and self-mutilation. Johnlock. Thank you finnicko-loves-anniec for the cover art.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters featured here (not for lack of trying).

A/N Rated M at the moment for swearing, graphic violence, and alcohol use. This fanfiction will be a longer fic (10+ chapters), updated about once a week. Please comment for advice/concerns!

* * *

"Look at me, John." The voice emanated from a dark corner of John Watson's apartment.

"Look at me." John squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to look.

"Look." Cold, wet fingers forced open John Watson's eyelids.

John stared at the mutilated face that was looking down at him.

"You owe me, John. You owe me a lot of them."

No, this wasn't his fault. It was the heat of the moment, he had panicked, and-

"You owe me."

* * *

Greg Lestrade swirled the drink in his glass, watching the brown liquid dance. He grimaced and swallowed the remainder of his whiskey. This was what- his fifth or sixth tonight? He didn't know, he had lost count. It certainly wasn't enough. Then again, it never was.

This wasn't the type of bar where people go to celebrate their successes- this was where people went to drown their woes. He looked at his empty glass, remembering what he had come here to forget. God-damned Lucy. They had both seemed so happy. They didn't fight. Everything had seemed like it was supposed to be. It wasn't so much that she had run off with someone else. That he might be able to get over. But a god-damned PE teacher. That was just insulting. Who would go after a PE teacher when their husband was a police detective? She had said it was because drinking and work had left him no time for her. Insulting.

He looked around the seedy bar. It was packed tonight- everyone was drinking away their week's earnings. Peopled milled about, harassing the bartender for another drink. He looked over to his left and saw a familiar face. Where had he seen that face before? Oh right. Eric. Alcoholics Anonymous. He had once been in an Alcoholics Anonymous group. That hadn't lasted long. Should he say hello? No. It would only remind both of them of their failure to get clean.

Greg considered buying another drink. He had driven to the bar, but he was already far past the point of being able to drive back. He was a police officer. Being pulled over for drunk driving would be especially embarrassing. Greg checked his wallet to see if he had had enough to get a taxi. Nope. Looked like he'd be walking home.

On his way out the door, Lestrade knocked a man's glass into his shirt. Shit. The man drew himself to full height, barely an inch shorter than Lestrade. "Oi, mate, what did-what did you just do?"

Greg considered his options. This man looked like he was in better shape than him, but also more drunk. His thoughts were cut short by a hand closing around his neck. Well, only one thing to do now. Greg grabbed a half-full bottle and brought it down on the man's head. The man collapsed as the bottle shattered. Poor waste of a good drink. Lestrade staggered out of the bar, opened the drunk's wallet, and checked inside.

Just enough for a taxi home.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I hope you all enjoy the new chapter of Voices in the Night! Please leave a review so I can improve my writing! Also, thank you to sneaky snakes and zombiegirl04 for following.

* * *

John Watson stared at the drug dealer. He had brainstormed for hours before deciding to kill a drug dealer, though in retrospect, it should have been immediately obvious. Drug dealers are willing to go to alleys and buildings where they won't be seen or heard. They are often murdered, and their deaths are immediately labeled as gang warfare or getting in a fight with some crazy junky. Lastly, nobody cares if a drug dealer dies. There would likely be no press coverage on the murder.

John had done his shopping for this experience. Latex gloves and a shower cap would prevent fingerprints or hairs to be left at the scene. This purchase would have been too memorable alone, so to avoid suspicion, he had purchased these at two different stores, along with his regular groceries.

He had chosen this particular drug dealer because of his location- the street was deserted and there were no security cameras pointed at him. It had taken John only an hour of walking around London's suburbs to find him.

Now, it was time. He walked unhurriedly towards the drug dealer. Pushing down a flutter of nervousness, he stood awkwardly next to him. The man looked over at John, gave him a small tap on the shoulder, and gestured towards John's pocket. John understood the message and pulled out his wallet, revealing his billfold. "That house." the drug dealer said in a deep and gravelly voice, and headed towards a small building with peeling paint and broken windows. The man opened the door for John, then closed it behind him.

The drug dealer looked with confusion as John slipped on gloves and a shower cap. Immediately after dressing himself, John pounced on the man, attempting to knock him over. The drug dealer was surprisingly strong though, and managed to stay up, at least until John kicked his knee hard enough to snap it to the side. He could feel the excitement rising in him. John then pulled out the screwdriver he had in his pocket and drove deep it into the drug dealers neck, directly over his jugular vein. Blood showered out onto John's gloved hand, and the man spasmed weakly with pain before lying still. John slowly pulled the screw driver out again, then punctured the man's abdomen several times. He fished around in the dealer's pockets and drew out his wallet, then placed it in his own pocket. John took one last look at the body, then walked calmly out.

John marched through the muddy curb to the other side of the street. He gently pulled off his shower cap and gloves and deposited them with the screwdriver in a small duffel bag he had brought with him. John walked several blocks until he reached a larger street, then hailed down a taxi. He napped on the trip back to his house, satisfied with his job well done.

* * *

That night, he had the dream again. He was pinned down in the building, with bullets slamming into the walls around him. He heard footsteps coming from the bottom floor of the building. He pointed his gun at the door, waiting for it to open. As he saw the door begin to be pushed open, he fired through the door, and heard a satisfying thump as a body hit the ground. He pulled the door open, checking whom he had just dispatched. He looked with horror at the body of a small boy whose jaw had now been blown off.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Hey guys! Sorry for the short chapter, I decided to split a longer chapter into two. Please R and R!

* * *

Greg Lestrade fell out of bed as his telephone rang. He glanced at the clock next to his phone. It was 4:36. _Goddamnit_. He'd had far too many drinks last night, and now he was paying for it. "What is it?" he said into the phone, slurring his words far too much to just be tired.

Sergeant Donavan, also sounding quite worn out, said quietly into the phone, "We've got a case for you."

There was a pause before Sergeant Donavan spoke again. Damnit, she knew. "There's a corpse at 122 Cook's Street when you're sober enough to come over." Her tone indicated that he was sober enough now.

Today was supposed to be a day off, but instead he had to wake up before sunrise and see some corpse. He stumbled to his fridge, pushed away the half-empty beers, pulled out several energy drinks, then drank them one after the other. It wasn't the best hangover remedy, but it was better than nothing. Greg dressed, walked outside, and hailed for a taxi.

He looked over the old man's body. Congealed blood covered the floor around his neck. He looked at the clipboard that some technician had put in his hands. "James Myers. Most likely a drug dealer, puncture wounds to neck and abdomen." He stopped in mid thought as his phone beeped.

This was strange- nobody ever texted him. Except-

_Oh god, not him_, Lestrade thought as he pulled out his phone to see the message.

I'm bored. Do you have a case?

-SH

Greg looked at the phone with contempt. It had been two months since Sherlock had last contacted him. He had assumed that the man had either fled the country or lost interest in being a detective. The phone beeped again.

If not, find me one.

-SH

He turned the phone over in his hand, wondering if he should let Sherlock in on this case. He was such an annoyance, but he was usually right.

Yes. At 221 cook's street. Dont fuck this one up

Lestrade stared at the his smart phone, wondering what monster he had just released onto his crime scene.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys! Sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy this next chapter! If you do, please don't hesitate to leave a review. If you don't, still don't hesitate to leave a review on why you disliked it, as well as the necessary information for me to hunt you down._

John Watson knocked on the apartment door. A frail, sickly woman opened it, looking suspiciously at John. "What do you want?" she said suspiciously. Without replying, John pushed her aside and closed the door behind him. A small army of cats looked up at the strange newcomer. "Hey now..." the old woman yelled at John, gesturing with her fist. John put his arm around her head, and pulled as hard as he could. The woman banged her fists weakly against John, then clawed at his arm. A sleek black cat stared at John with wide eyes as he strangulated its owner. Slowly, the woman's struggles grew weaker and weaker until John snapped her neck violently to the side. He let go of her body, letting it tumble to the floor. He stooped over, picked up the bowl of cat food, and dropped it into the trash. Making sure no cats followed him, John left the apartment. The cats would take care of the body soon enough.

John left the apartment building and turned into an alley, hoping to avoid being seen. "Having fun?" The voice emanated from a dark alcove, lit only by a burning cigarette. "You're earlier than I expected. I thought I'd have time to finish this." The light dropped to the ground before being extinguished.

The man stepped forward into the street light. He was tall, with black, curly hair, and piercing, green eyes. "I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with somebody." John said nervously.

"I don't think so John." John froze in his tracks and turned to face the man.

"How do you know my name?" John asked, one half angered and one half terrified.

"That doesn't matter to you. What matters to you is that I know you've killed two people."

"Why shouldn't I kill you? Right here?" John sized the man up. He was taller than John, but didn't seem to be as muscular.

"Because the old lady you just asphyxiated has your skin and blood in her fingernails, and you were a member of the British military. The government has your DNA on file."

"The police wouldn't check military records." John replied, trying to act unaffected by this man's remarks.

"They would after someone points out the footprint you left came from military-issued boots." John vaguely remembered stepping in the muddy curb. "So, John, you left your DNA under an old woman's fingernails. What should you do?" John looked at him, confused. "Oh, I forgot you're stupid. Don't worry, almost everybody is. Now, really think John. What should you do?" John thought about this for a second, then reached his conclusion. Without responding, he reentered the old lady's apartment, stooped down, pulled out the knife he had hidden in his boot, and sliced off the woman's fingers. As he stuffed them in his pocket, he looked down at the woman's ankle. There was already a chunk bitten out of it.

When John returned to the man, John showed him the fingers. John could of sworn he saw the tiniest of smiles on the man's face before he said "Goodbye John. I expect I will see you soon.", turned, and disappeared into the alley again.

John flagged down a taxi, and made his way back to his cozy apartment. He had been thinking about why the man would help him all night, and had reached only one conclusion. He was living through him.

"Wake up John." John rubbed his eyes, peering into the corner of his room.

"Do you see this John?" John peered into the darkness, letting his eyes adjust until he saw a calendar. A bloody hand pointed towards the thirty-first.

"You have until then John. Then-" John saw himself walking into a mall, pulling out a pistol and beginning to fire on everyone he could see. The figure circled the day with its bloody finger, then walked slowly over to John's bed. The bloody finger now went to John's eyelids, forcing them closed. Before he fell asleep, John had one last realization. The figure wasn't seeking vengeance: it was John's friend.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys! Sorry its been awhile. Hopefully you enjoy the next chapter!

Greg Lestrade looked at his crime scene. Sherlock had ran around it, looking at this and that, and then had left without telling him anything. Now, his staff were doing their best. Whoever killed the drug dealer hadn't left much for them. Greg looked down at his clipboard, hoping for any insightful thoughts. None were forthcoming.

Greg looked into his glass. "This'll be the one that kills you Greg. It's probably burning a hole in your liver right now." He swallowed the liquor, disappointed with himself. Greg scanned the bar, hoping to avoid any familiar faces. Eric was gone- either he was sober again, or he'd been banned from the bar. Either one was probably good for him, Greg reasoned. His thoughts wandered back to his liver. Ghastly images of scarred and inflamed livers from health pamphlets and autopsies he'd attended wandered into his mind. He drank from his glass again, trying to expel the thoughts. He paid the bartender and wandered home, looking for cheaper alcohol.

A small liquor store gave his relief. A two dollar bottle of wine wouldn't taste good, but it would keep him drunk. He looked at the bottle, considering it. He would regret it later if he drank it. Greg looked around for a place to get rid of it. His eyes settled on homeless man, sleeping on a mat. Greg walked up to the man and slipped the wine bottle under his arm.

"That's rather against the point of going sober, don't you think?" Sherlock said from behind Greg, startling him.

"I'd hate to waste a good drink." Greg replied, concerned that Sherlock had been stalking him. Remembering earlier, Greg grew more angry. "You ran off on me! You just walked away!" he exclaimed, hoping to get a response.

"I didn't find anything other than a dead end." Sherlock looked unconcernedly at Greg. "Until you find the other body, I can't do anything."

"Wait a second, the other body?" Greg said, slurring his words together. "Is there another body?"

"I'm sure of it." replied Sherlock, with a hint of a smile playing at his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys! I know it's been awhile, but here's the next chapter! Enjoy!

_John, meet me at Speedy's Cafe at 12:00. _

_You know who it is._

John stared at the text, unaware of what it entailed. He hadn't given the man his number. John knew he had no choice on whether to go or not- his fate was entirely in the man's hands.

John looked around the cafe, hoping to see the man. He recognized the place- he had eaten here yesterday. The room was small- there weren't many places he could be. The door to the cafe swung open, and the man walked over to John and sat in the seat opposite to him. John stared at the man, getting a good look at him. He noticed the man's thin cheeks and skin. John recognized this from his time in Afghanistan- it was the tell-tale sign of starvation. The man looked John in the eyes and gave a wolf-like smile.

"Hello John. It's nice to see you." John grew angry. He was not here for small talk.

_The only reason this man is alive is because he's useful to me._ John tried to make himself believe this. "Why did you call me here?" he said, trying to inflict power into his words.

"I was bored and hungry. This seemed like a solution to both problems. You ate here yesterday, and you looked like you enjoyed it."

"What the hell, how did you know that?"

"I followed you."

"I didn't see anyone following me!"

"That is because I followed you." The man leaned closer, putting his face only inches away from John's. "You were right in assuming I had motivations other than the ones I have told you. I can tell you have big plans John, big plans involving lots of people. I thought I'd suggest a location." The man pulled out his phone, and showed him an image of a large building. "It's called Bosworth Mall. I think you'd find its layout conducive to your aspirations."

John looked at the man incredulously. How could he have known this? John slammed his chair into the table and left, leaving the cafe.

John looked at the homeless man. John reached into his pocket and stroked the electrical cord he had brought with him. The man was sleeping, turned away from him. He had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. The next building over was a slaughterhouse. John tentatively opened the butcher's dumpster and peered inside, wincing at the pungent smell. As he had expected, the dumpster was filled with scraps of flesh. A few more would not be noticed. He walked up to the sleeping man and wrapped the cord around his neck.

The man woke up, startled, and John squeezed the cord and dragged it upward. The homeless man's feet left the ground, leaving him kicking in the air. John snapped his neck and laid the man on the ground. He took a boning knife out of his pocket and started slicing apart the major joints. Soon, the corpse was unrecognisable as human. He dumped the various parts into dumpster. Tomorrow was garbage day for this side of town. The body would be gone then.

A/N I realize this section is completely unrealistic- scraps from slaughterhouses are made into chicken McNuggets. I apologize to McDonalds for insulting their efficiency and calling them wasteful.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey guys! I have a shorter chapter for you today. Do you all think I should up the rating?_

_Have you found a body yet?_

_-SH 12:37_

_No, I'm trying_

_-GL 12:39_

_Hurry, the trail will be harder to follow the more time passes_

_-SH 12:40_

_I'm aware of that_

_-GL 12:40_

_Have you found a body yet?_

_-SH 3:21_

_No! I will tell you when I find it!_

_-GL 3:21_

_I need data Greg!_

_-SH 3:21_

Greg furiously fiddled with his phone, looking for a way to block Sherlock's number. Similar conversations had been going on for a week. The man couldn't seem to get it in the thick skull of his that Sherlock would be the first to know if he found a matching body.

John woke up in the night to find the figure standing over him. It had its mouth wide open, and was chewing its hand with a broken jaw. The figure saw his eyes open, and looked excited. The figure grabbed his hand and took him to the sink where John shaved. John popped the blade out of his razor and gave it to the figure. It put it to the base of his ear and quickly sliced downward. John's knees buckled with pain, and he collapsed onto his cold linoleum floor. When the figure pushed a towel against his head, he looked up at it. His ear had replaced the figure's hand in its mouth.


	8. Chapter 8

Hey ladies and gentlemen! We're nearing the end… There will only be 2-3 chapters left. Thanks to everyone who commented or followed. It's been wonderful seeing how this story has developed.

Greg looked around his apartment, looking for a source of entertainment. His television had given him no relief from boredom. Greg's loneliness piled in his chest. It had been months since he had dated, years since he had felt any real attachment. His eyes flitted towards the liquor cabinet. It would be a quick relief, a solution to both his boredom and loneliness. Greg thought of the countless hours of blissful comatose its contents would afford. He started up, then sat back down. It had been three weeks of sobriety for him- his longest dry stretch in years. Pausing,

Greg got back up and walked to the cabinet. The bottles seemed to smile at him, hinting their chemical euphoria. He poured himself a drink and raised it to his lips, enjoying its burn. He drank another, and another, and another again. He kept drinking as fast as he could, wishing for the alcohol to finally end him. Angered, he ran into the street, yelling at nobody to end him.

Collapsing into a heap of drunken flesh, Greg sobbed into his shoulder, gasping for breath. He regained composure and staggered back into his apartment. He walked to his bathroom and took out his razor. Rolling back his sleeve, he stared at his white, vulnerable wrist. Blue veins spiraled in his soft skin. He couldn't do it, he couldn't.

Greg threw the razor on the floor in disgust and slammed his bare foot down on it. The edge of the blade sliced across his toe, leaving him cursing. He punched the wall, leaving an indent. Greg fell over and cried until he was overtaken by the night.

Greg scrubbed his at his carpet. His foot had bled profusely, leaving a large puddle of blood on his floor. Bleach quickly whitened the stain, destroying the evidence of Greg's rage. He watched as what had used to keep him alive was eradicated by the toxic chemical.

A long Saturday stretched out in front of Greg. There was work to be done, but he doubted he would do it. He checked his phone, scrolling past dozens of Sherlock's texts in the search of something interesting. Greg stumbled to his bed and fell asleep again, hoping his liver would catch up with his consumption while he rested.

A knock at the door awakened Greg. Sleep had eliminated his self administered poisons, and he rose easily to answer the door. Opening it, Sherlock's long face greeted him. Sherlock gave him a smile, let himself in, and sat down.

"Hello Greg! Had quite the night I see." Sherlock said, looking amused at Greg's foot.

"What do you want?" Greg inquired, unwilling to play Sherlock's games.

"An L85A2 automatic rifle and a kevlar jacket."

"What the hell do you want those for?"

"If you want to find this person and stop them from killing again, I need to make a deal with certain people. They want an L85A2 automatic rifle and a kevlar jacket."

"Christ Sherlock, I can't get you those."

"Just talk to someone in CO19 Force Firearms Unit and see what you can do." Sherlock walked silently out the door.

Greg watched him leave with that smug walk of his. He sighed, knowing he couldn't say no to Sherlock.

John woke up, listening as footsteps thumped towards his bed. A familiar face peered at him through the darkness. His ear was gone from its mouth; that was probably to be expected. Once again, the figure led him to the sink. This time, it took his upper lip.

The next night it took his pinky finger.

The next, a slice out of his left cheek.


	9. Chapter 9

We're almost done, just one more chapter! If anyone has any suggestions for my next big fic, please tell!

John fumbled for his phone. The tall man was the only one who ever texted him.

_Meet me at my flat. 221B Baker Street._

John wondered what this could be about; he doubted the man would reveal his location without good reason.

Greg Lestrade looked down at the box in his hands. He shouldn't do this; giving Sherlock an automatic weapon was a terrible idea. God knows Sherlock was already irresponsible enough with that pistol of his, shooting it into the wall whenever he was bored. Greg knocked on the door to Sherlock's flat, waiting for him to answer.

"It's open!" a voice rang out from the dark flat, inviting Greg in. Greg pushed open the door, looking at the tall, thin man lying on his couch. "Hello John! Nice of you to join me."

"Sorry to disappoint, but it's Greg." Sherlock seemed surprised by this.

"Well, come in Greg! By the way, I saw your wife yesterday." Sherlock finally rose of his couch to look at Greg. "She was holding hands with a gym teacher." Greg threw the box on the ground and stormed off, fuming at Sherlock's laughs.

When he arrived at the building, a frail woman guided him to the man's apartment door. "Sherlock, someone's here to see you!" She cried, pounding on his door. _Sherlock._ John thought to himself. _What a strange name. _The man opened the door, looking straight past the woman to John.

"Hello John!" Sherlock seemed genuinely pleased to see him. "I just have a little package for you to take home." The man looked over to the old woman, who was still standing next to the door. Annoyed, he shooed her away. The old woman quickly disappeared down the stairs.

Sherlock walked into his flat and grabbed a large box. Opening it, he allowed John to see its contents. John stared in wonder at a rifle and a kevlar vest. Five large magazines were stacked neatly inside. He thought about the damage he could do with this, the carnage he could inflict. This was perfect.

"You'll have the most success if you do it Sunday at four." John turned his gaze to Sherlock. "The man in charge of your investigation will be there, right next to the front doors." Sherlock gave him a photograph of an aging man in a suit, looking straight at the camera. Sherlock was in the photo as well, looking uncomfortable as the other man smiled and put his arm around him.

"Why should I not kill you? I have everything I want from you." John was excited by the idea of finally being out of Sherlock's influence.

"It would be very ambitious of you. You wouldn't be the only one who's tried." Sherlock pointed loosely to the skull on his mantle. "Ask Irene over there how that turned out for her." John hurried out of the man's flat. The man's laughter chased him all the way into the street.

_Lestrade, I've got the killer. Meet me at Bosworth Mall at 4:00_

_-SH_

Finally, the remedy to Lestrade's problems. Lestrade thought about the possible promotion, the pay raise, his coworkers looking up to him again… It was nearly too good to be true.


	10. Chapter 10

Well, that's all folks. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story. This was my first big fanfiction, and I'm sorry to see it go. If you're interested, I'll be making a new fic soon, though I don't know what it will be about.

John looked at the man leaning against the wall. His face was the one from the photo, though it had changed significantly from the time the photo had been taken. Stress taken its toll, and his face drooped downward loosely. The man looked nervous, frequently checking his phone and rubbing his hand through his hair.

John shifted the bag he had brought with him to his other arm. In it was the rifle and magazines; he had already put on the vest, hiding it beneath his clothes. He reached to open the bag, then stopped. After he did that, there would be no return. He would have to come out of his obscure night into the light, and once he did that there would be nothing more for him.

Greg Lestrade checked the time again. Leave it to Sherlock to bail on him. Greg thought back to all the solved cases that were Sherlock's, and only Sherlock's. It was him who had dragged him into police work and away from his wife. Oh God, what his life could have been if he hadn't trusted that asshole to-

A line of incredible pain dragged down from his jaw down to his thigh, dropping him to the ground. He had just enough time to see the mutilated nightmare that killed him before the night closed around him.

The figure stayed by John as he fired, steadying his hand. It guided the gun barrel towards the policeman, then let John squeeze the trigger. John watched as blood erupted from the man's head and neck. The figure directed the rifle towards a group of tourists now, once again letting John squeeze the trigger, putting a line of bullet holes across the group. Panic had now erupted in the mall, and shoppers ran away from John. A mall cop shot John in the chest, knocking him onto the floor. John lifted his rifle up and expended the rest of his magazine cutting the man's throat with the bullets. He winced as he got up and fired his rifle into person after person, feeling the most glee he ever had.

John collapsed as a bullet erupted under his eye. He smiled as he drifted off, then struggled in fear as the figure's head loomed into view. It began to feast, tearing John once and for all away from reality.


End file.
